


Intermission

by Naughty Captain Crieff (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, PWP, Seriously there isn't even a little bit of plot, maybe mild BDSM?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Naughty%20Captain%20Crieff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's hands. His voice.</p><p>They're all Sherlock needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermission

**Author's Note:**

> once upon a time a naive young woman read her first holmecest fic by chasingriver and it spoiled her to all else
> 
> this is inspired by her works which are significantly better (and kinkier) than this
> 
> I didn't consult my lovely beta before posting this so all mistakes are my own

Sherlock’s not entirely sure how he found himself in such a compromising position, naked, panting and bent double over his brother’s desk, with such little persuasion

There’s still shaving foam behind his ears, he thinks mildly.

Out of site, Mycroft paces the width of his office, taking in every inch of his debauched little brother, like prey. He’s still buttoned up in that suit, still utterly composed, unfazed. He’ll make Sherlock work for it and won't even leave a mark to incriminate himself the insufferable, lazy, stubborn-

“Oh hush now, Sherlock” his thoughts are silenced by a stinging smack to his backside.  

“Piss off.” he spits back, out of loyalty to a long lived feud rather than any actual animosity.

Another smack, softer this time, Sherlock might almost call it fond.

“Alright then, dearest.” Mycroft drawls, wielding terms of endearment like insults and affections simultaneously, “What would you have me do?”

There’s a cool hand on the pink flesh of his arse, kneading thoughtfully.

“Will you let me inside?”

One of those sinfully long fingers slides between the crease of his thighs and up, up-

“Shall I fill you up?”

-and begins a slow press into Sherlock’s waiting entrance. There’s a glorious dry burn that makes Sherlock hiss from between his teeth.

“Use your clenching, desperate hole until you’re writhing under me, begging for release?”

The fingers are gone in a moment and Sherlock cannot catch the whine in his throat before it’s loose in the air.

“Well,” Mycroft hums, voice like silk spun to wrap around his neck and steal the breath from him “Would you like that?”

He doesn’t hesitate, “Yes!”

Sherlock realises his mistake too late. He’s been away too long, forgotten how their game works, this give and take.

He’s given in too soon.

Mycroft stalks around the desk and perches on his chair in front of Sherlock. He’s down to his shirt sleeves, still hidden behind a waistcoat. Sherlock knows it’s the most vulnerable Mycroft will let himself be here. It’s not enough, not after two years clean, Sherlock wants slick flesh on flesh, wants the desperate push and pull of – it’s too much.

“Oh dear,” Mycroft runs a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, “It looks like we’ll have to train you up again.”

He pushes two fingers between Sherlock’s lips, rests them heavily on his tongue and raises a delicate eyebrow when Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“Hurry along then, it’s all you’ll get.”                                                                                                        

Sherlock runs his tongue over the digits, sucks on the whorls of his fingertips and wonders if Mycroft is as hard as he is. When Mycroft stands, dragging his fingers away and letting saliva run down Sherlock’s chin, there isn’t even a crease in those finely pressed trousers. Of course there isn’t. Imperium.

Mycroft’s behind him again before he can breathe, sliding those slicked fingers in slowly though Sherlock’s traitorous body draws him in faster. 

“Greedy, aren’t we?”

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

_No, no don’t, sing me to the edge._

There’s an exquisite sting as Mycroft’s begins to plunge those elegant digits into his all too willing body.

“I would have you here, draw it out, if time permitted.” Mycroft sighs, “You straddling me in my chair, fucking yourself on my cock.”

Sherlock doesn’t try to hold back the moan. This brother of his and his terribly cruel voice. Soft and calm and picking him apart in its rich decadence.

 “Oh I suppose I might help you along too, wrap a hand around your aching prick, if you’re very lucky. If you’re very good.”

Another finger is slipped alongside and discomfort turns to pain but oh, _oh_ , it is a fine thing.

“I’d lean in, of course, bite those lips bloody, invade that sweet mouth. I’d suck a mark into your throat, stake a claim if you like. _Mine_.”

It’s all he can take, Sherlock ceases his scrabbling at the edge of the desk and instead moves a hand his neglected cock. Mycroft makes no effort to find that elusive, blinding spot, instead making Sherlock canter and stutter his hips to seek it himself. In the end it comes down to Sherlock fucking himself hopelessly on his own brother’s fingers, as the man responsible stands unaffected and aloof.

Up until the final moments when he leans in close, presses all those long lines of himself against Sherlock’s back and into his ear exhales, “Come for me, brother mine.”

Sherlock wants to resist the command but there are too many years of conditioning, Mycroft has too thoroughly integrated himself into every corner of Sherlock’s mind, for him to deny.

So he comes, quite unspectacularly with sweat dripping into his eyes and choking on his own saliva as he attempts to groan, splattering against the side of Mycroft’s desk.

And in the aftermath, boneless, sweating and raw, Sherlock hears the smirk in his brother’s voice,

“I expect you to clean that up.” 

**Author's Note:**

> what am i doing


End file.
